My Mother

My mother, a beautiful soul,
In all the ways her actions show.
She raised me well, though her doubts remain,
But I have always felt her love, her steady reign.

Even now, I keep her near,
The one from whom I still revere.
She’s the voice that says, "Those shoes don't work,"
But praises when my style’s not berserk.

She never holds her words inside,
Taught me to push beyond, not hide,
To never settle for halfway done,
To reach for better, for what's yet won.

Her cooking, too, is something learned,
A love for flavors, how they turned.
From simple meals to feasts divine,
Each dish a lesson, hers and mine.

My temper, too, is hers to give,
Though she won’t admit, I know we live,
In petty spats, those words we chase,
Both stubborn, standing in our place.

She doesn’t always understand,
And sometimes tears fall from her hand.
But my mother’s strong, a fighter through,
A woman I admire, forever true.

And though it all as all must be,
I love her deeply, endlessly.